Oh good morning – good morning our only friend, good morning Bonsai tree. We slept under your budding branches last night and dreamt of an fresh water lake trapped underneath miles of ice in Antarctica, we dreamt of desert sickness and feared there was a worm alive inside of us, one that had grown to grotesque proportions, and then we dreamed about a tree, not you Bonsai; it was a sad sort of tree, but there was not to much gravity and we could leap from sad and miserable branch to sad and miserable branch. But we woke up, and we saw you, and our back felt good because we slept on the floor. We felt lean this morning, lean like twisted trunk – we felt lean and energetic, like your newly budding branches.
It is good time to be slow, this early, and so there is only soft music, and tea, and a water bucket. We give you a good cold drink. Long, lengthy, languid, lavish, and filled with love. You were dying when came to rent a bed in this eight floor condo with perfect appliances. You were dying when we stood on the balcony and watched the golf course emerge in the sunrise with a sprinkler system and sand traps, but it took a while to pay attention. You (Bonsai) would have died, but we watched that golf course, and thought how stupid it was that there were sprinklers, but we did not think too much. The line up of sports cars was below us, and the parade of women hopping in and hopping out, and then there was a trip, and then a book, and suddenly there was only you.
So it is slow, and this is early, and your grayish horned roots dig deeper than the pot allows, but we let it flood. Till the pot runs over and we feel you gasping, and we look at every branch, and take our scissors and clip the little dead growths, and we pet those broad leaves up top. And if it is not to early we will sing something we pretend to be a hymn, but ends of sounding more like a chant. You are good tree bonsai.
